The end
by CherryAvenue
Summary: "Do you know how many times I thought about ending it?" After the passing of his friend, House feels lost, confused and at the end of his rope. His life has been cut from all people he used to know. A fresh start is almost impossible. Is it? Set after the show's finale. A pondering on suicidal thoughts.
1. The grave

The break of the day. Cemetery. A lonely man sitting under a tree, with a beer can in his hand, slowly sipping a Budweiser brew. His sight trailing over the tombstones, deliberately omitting to look at the one to the right of him. A modest but decent tombstone on which there weren't engraved the usual words: "A loving husband, an attentive father etc." No mention of anyone like that in his life. Only: "James Wilson. Mediocre doctor. The bestest friend." This childish engraving was the doing of the man under a tree. He never glanced at the words. Into the coming darkness, he uttered with a hidden tone of sorrow in his voice: "Happy birthday, Wilson."


	2. Abode

Supporting himself on his cane, he got up with some effort and limped towards the gate. It was closing time. He ignored the buzzing of the bees, the sight of beautiful flowers growing, the whispering of the trees. His stare was always at the grey of the pavement and the black of the asphalt. Sometimes he looked up to see the people on the bus. Coughing, wiping their noses into their sleeves, holding their rheumatic limbs or suppressing the early stages of…something. He kept diagnosing each and every one of them in his mind. But that was the only place he'd diagnose. He would ride the bus only to do that, not really to get anywhere. When he entered a pub in the evening, he ordered bourbon and from that point on he just stared into the void and kept sipping his drink. He wouldn't diagnose in the pub. People there didn't exist to him anymore. Not even the bartender. He was only a machine to him that gave out the delicious liquid of oblivion. Like erasing his hard drive at the end of every day so that the next wouldn't seem so mundane and monotonous. When he had had enough, he would go to his apartment in a questionable part of the city. A dingy old place with a lot of history. The rent was cheap and the landlord didn't care about anything except money. The place was full of 'abnormal' people. Drug addicts, minorities on support, criminals, gang signs all over the walls. Life was cheap in this quarter. But for a reason, House, the limping genius in hiding had earned a certain amount of respect. He no more had a license. But that didn't stop him from practicing medicine. After some low level thug found out he used to be a doctor, the hall before his apartment door was swarming with people with no insurance asking for advice on their ailments and pains. For a small amount of cash, obviously. It didn't take long for him to even establish a connection with a certain pharmacist, who gave out meds on forged prescriptions. It was grand scheme that didn't only involve him but hundreds of people. And so his wonderful drug carrier began. Luckily, he got his hands on most of his things from his old apartment, Wilson having handled his possessions after his 'death'. It was all illegal for sure. But then, his own existence was sort of illegal as well. He had a fake ID, couldn't travel abroad, every simple act of freedom was a risk for him, his identity being lost for a friend. He could've gone to the police and admitted that his death was indeed faked. But then he would have spent additional years in prison for fraud and other various crimes. He rather chose to avoid spending the last years of his life in a cramped space with another psychopathic case. He chose to live on the edge of law. It was a life suiting to his thrill-seeking nature, but somehow, it didn't pack as much thrill when there was no one to share it with.

"Hey doc, I gotta a thing I need to look afta'…" a tenant from downstairs spoke to him, when he entered the door to his building, after having to walk all the way from the pub when the bus line was cut to these parts for some reason.

"I got visiting hours. Come tomorrow." He spat out with contempt.

"But it's an urgent thang, man…" He kept on walking. Didn't even catch a glimpse of him.

He was drunk and now after all the walking, in tremendous pain. His humble abode on the third floor didn't make it any easier for him. He threw himself on the bed and grabbed the crater in his thigh. His eyelids were clamped together and his teeth clenched in agony only increased by his depressing state. He writhed on the bed for a couple of minutes when rest on his leg began to take effect and the flesh-eating pain subsided a little. He fell asleep with exhaustion, all dressed as usual and slept like that till morning came.


	3. To bathe

The sun cut through the blinds like a knife through butter and when it hit his face, the burning sensation on his cheeks and eyes slowly scraped his skin until he couldn't bear it no longer and had to turn over. Weak and with a hangover, as his mind was slowly waking up, his brain began to realize the pain in his leg. This sudden blow of reality was usually the most painful. When he managed to muster up enough strength to sit up, he reached under his bed and took out a small wooden box in which he kept all his meds. The Vicodin wasn't making it anymore. Occasionally, he would use morphine in the past to ease his pain. But now it has gotten a lot more common that he reached for the hard stuff. His mind found a little ease with the drug in his bloodstream filling all corners of his body with sweet relief and he went to compose himself.

After 10 am, he usually let in the people that crowded around his doorstep. Usual stories, small problems, insignificant booboos which didn't need a scrip. Towards two o'clock, there was no one there. When he opened the door to check that, he saw a brunette in her late twenties dash downstairs from an apartment above. It was a rather normal looking woman, with dulled eyes, smudged make-up, worn-out clothes and an indifferent look on her bleached face. Almost contemptuous. But that wasn't surprising in here. She was all in black, her coat long with a grand collar put up and her long black hair waved in the air as she flew by his door. House wouldn't think any of it, if she didn't stop on the floor below and looked up at him.

"Are you the doctor?" She asked and her deep and warm voice filled the hall with an echo. House didn't know her at all, seemed she wasn't from this district. But she had the faded look of an addict and such sort was welcome here.

"I might be." He answered while turning inside. When he looked again, she was gone.

He noticed her a few more times in the hallway. She threw a glimpse at him sometimes. He enjoyed it. But they never spoke a word except the ones before.

She came to his door after some time. She waited to be the last person he would take that day. It was already 5 pm and the landlord himself came out of his apartment with a bandaged hand. It seemed that he had cut his hand very deep. When she got up from sitting on the stairs, the evening light shone on her pale face and when she looked up he caught a spark in her ocean blue eyes. But he recognized the kind of look on her face. It made him a little nervous.

"What's your problem?" he said quickly, turned away from her, putting together his sandwich.

"I can't sleep. A friend of mine said you'd give a scrip for that." She didn't turn to look into his face either.

"You live here?" He asked out of curiosity.

"The friend left me her apartment. She went to live somewhere better. The scrip?" She asked impatiently.

"Better?"

"She married a guy in real-estate. He likes to lock her up in his basement. And she likes it." Her nervousness was growing.

"What kind of work do you do?"

"I used to be a teacher in a private school. I'm unemployed now. Now what about the scrip?" She raised her voice.

"I can't give you the scrip." He proclaimed.

"Why not?"

"Because you don't want it to sleep." She looked terrified and felt violated when he said that. He continued when she kept on being silently appalled. "Your appearance would normally suggest insomnia. The dull eyes, the nervous fidgeting or frozen stare, but your face says 'depression and anxiety'. You lost your insurance when you lost your job, probably pertaining to your drug problem and that's how you got depressed. Now the only thing you think about is getting sleeping pills to off yourself and I'm not giving them to you. " She measured him with her silent stare and first really noticed his cane.

"I hoped you'd understand pain."

"I understand it and I completely support the view that we should wallow in it until the natural end of our life. Get out." She left quickly and smacked the door.

He was shaken though he wasn't showing it. He knew the look on her face. He recognized the distant stare into the void. The stare that can see through walls and people. The stare that pierces the whole universe, looking for explanation. But because of that he wouldn't alter his usual stoic expression with indifference written all over it. The encounter ate at him, however. He kept seeing her vacant gaze aimed at the floor as she was uttering words such as pain and understanding in one sentence. It gnawed at him, the thought of those two words. Everyone keeps using them that way but no one really does it. No one really understands pain until they've lived it. And when you live it, you're unable to understand everything else. It distorts reality and cripples your mind. The world around make no sense anymore, you have to make it make sense. _How did she know about the pain? Is everybody seeing what she was seeing? The cane doesn't necessarily mean pain, it means difficulty. What did she see... Does everyone pity me?_

What he didn't realize, was the obviousness of his appearance. The louder exhales during the way upstairs, clenching fist on bad days, fluctuating tone of voice. On bad days such as the ones that were these past months since Wilson's passing, these were the symptoms. He made a habit of keeping himself informed on the lives of the people he left behind. Just the other day, he casually took a stroll (House doesn't take strolls) through the park he knew Cuddy brought her daughter to. He would just pass around the playground at safe distance and saw her there. They were both enjoying marvelous health and looked happy together, as Cuddy was admiring heaps of sand created by now-not-so-little Rachel, who was reaching a fifth year of her life. She ran around happily with her friends and Cuddy had an air of warmth in her heart while watching her. He noticed himself staring at her for a few minutes and felt she could spot him almost running away from the scene of the crime. He would come down to Princeton to see his former employees come out after punching the clock. The blond cutie, the black hardy…Regularly, he checked on Thirteen. But he wasn't afraid she would find out about him so he didn't take any special precautions. He just sort of didn't want to speak to her, because then she'd accuse him of having human feelings, she'd tell him to open up and he'd be annoyed at the sweetness of the moment. But he made sure he was updated on her health status. So that he'd be prepared. He wanted to call and check on his mother too. But he never got around to it. He never got to picking up the phone and admitting what he had to do. Except one day when he dialed the number and he heard a "this number has been disconnected" kind of message. He knew what that meant. It struck him harder than he thought it would.

The woman in black kept creeping up in his mind. Perhaps, he felt he was too severe with her. Yelling at an unstable person is not the best of ideas and he knew that. But he couldn't resist the temptation to humiliate someone. Like he wanted to punish everyone for all he's been through. It seemed there was enough death and pain around him and so he mustered up the courage to take the pen, write up a kind of prescription, a different one than she wanted, climb the steps and try to think out which door was hers. He noticed that one of the doors was open leaving a crack that let the last of the day's sunshine into the hall. He recognized her shoes thrown on the floor inside and he decided to go in. He knocked at the frame a couple of times first. No response.

"Hello?" He waited. Nothing. "Hello!" Utter silence. "Hey lady, about the scrip-" He opened the door and noticed her clothes were thrown about the room. Her purse was on the bed. A glass vase was shattered on the floor. He was struck with a frightening feeling when he saw that there were traces of blood on some of the shards of glass carelessly broken all over the floor. _Did she step on them? That's unlikely._ He went around and called again. "I don't wanna intrude, but you're sort of not giving me a choice," he yelled into the still atmosphere. He heard a noise. It was in the bathroom which he just passed. It was the rippling of water, the falling of small drops of water from the tap and something else. When he opened the door a gruesome sight was in front of his eyes. The black haired woman was lying stark naked in the tub, filled with water, mixed with blood. Her head was partially underwater. As she was still breathing, the water rippled slightly as she exhaled. Her face painted with the white of death. And a shard of glass right next to the tub smeared with a great amount of her own blood.


	4. Operation

As soon as House saw her, he reacted just like he was accustomed. He quickly took her out of the bath, he didn't feel the effort it would usually take for him to lift a human being. The adrenaline was working on that. Her cut wrists were now exposed and he tied them with handkerchiefs he found drying on the line. She was still breathing, pulse was weak, her complexion was deathly. But she lived. Meanwhile, he took out his cell and wanted to call an ambulance, but he stopped and dialed another number instead.  
"Hey, Stanton, it's House, I need a huge favor. I need some supplies and fucking fast….No, it's not a drug kind of problem, more like blood problem…" He explained the situation very briefly. "Wait a sec." He left her there and went into her purse from which he retrieved an old blood donor card. "0 neg…As much as u can. And surgical supplies…That's not my problem….Because she has no insurance, no money, she won't be able to pay that…No more than a few minutes…Okay."

There was nothing he could do for her at the moment. He could only keep her stable and make sure she doesn't lose any more blood. By the looks of it, she must've lost about one and a half to two liters. It was close. He sat with her for a few minutes, checking her, noticing how frightened he actually is. His hands trembling, his shivering at sight of a naked wet body with bloody wrists. Yet she was beautiful that way. But he was scared. For her life, for if she died it would be his fault. He put in the last nail in her coffin. He kept saying to himself that this person could be anybody – even a pizza delivery guy. That person would never even know. But he would. He would have directly caused her death. That reminded him of Kutner. Of Amber. emTake a ride in the bus, the place to diagnose, a cesspool of disease. /emSuddenly a resonant male voice woke him from contemplation above her barely alive shell.  
"I'm here…" It was Stanton, a well-built guy in his late thirties with auburn hair and a stubble. "I grabbed all I could-holy fuck!" He twitched upon seeing her lying there on the floor. "What the fuck is this, you maniac?"  
"She slit her wrists, you idiot. Now, give me the bag!" He hung the bag of blood on a rack nearby, he put it in her and nudged Stanton to give him the sewing supplies. "The cuts are shallow and vertical. It's a clean cut through the vein, we can fix that in here too."  
"We? I'm a fucking pharmacologist…"  
"Stop yapping, put on your gloves and start sewing."  
House was worried too. Infection, one small mistake and she is done for. But he had a sudden a feeling that this is what he can do. Save her life, truly save it. She was sedated. And still bleeding. They were done in record time. Now just a few final touches in terms of preventing infection. Upon seeing how clean the place was, he'd think he was the dirtiest thing that was currently there. It all was scrubbed and smelt slightly of disinfectant. They bandaged her and put her on the bed, hooked her up with another bag of the good stuff and kept her sedated until the morning. House sent Stanton home and stayed there to look after her. He had no doubt she'd be fine. On the surface of course. Inside, he was terrified, that he screwed it up even more. Another person would die, because of him.

He was left in her apartment with her things. He looked around for a while, the place was nearly empty of furniture. After all it was a small apartment. There was a mattress, a laptop on a chair next to it, curtains above on the window, the kitchen was neat and cleaned with a total of three plates, 2 cups and some kitchen utensils, one pan and pot. Her clothes were still unpacked in her bag on the floor. But one thing the place was full of. Paintings. Drawings. Brushes and tubes of paint, palettes, watercolors, hundred kinds of charcoal and pencils in small compartments around the living room/ bedroom, boxes full of those. The drawings and paintings were all around him and yet he barely noticed them when he came in. They were mostly of people but not exactly, they were fantasies of people, of what they could be. Some of them were horrible and dark and some were soaring angels with a blinding halo around them. They were all, nevertheless, exquisite in his eyes. Having loved art his whole life, even though it was music mostly, he had to feel the sensation. The ability of the painter to feel more than an average human. To perceive the unperceivable. As an uncharacteristic gesture of kindness, he swept up the broken pieces of the vase and threw them away. When he was done, he realized he didn't even know her name. She never said it. He grabbed the purse and fished out her ID from her wallet. _Josephine._


	5. Cause and effect

Joe was lying in her bed. She woke up early in the morning, the sun was still over the hill. She looked around and spotted that her scenery changed from the time she fell asleep, convinced it was for the last time. Another thing was out of place. Next to her mattress, the doctor was sleeping on his back, lying on the floor on one of her blankets. She moved her hand and noticed the IV, protruding from her arm. She noticed the bag with blood, the bandaged wounds and it finally occurred to her after her long sleep that her life was continuing.

"Hey, you!" She yelled and House sprung up from his sleep.

"You want me to sedate you some more? Because I will." He sat up, turned to face her and started examining her.

"What do you think you're doing?" She said, but now more quietly and calmly than before.

"What does it look like, I'm examining a patient. A patient on suicide watch." When was sure, she was stable, he just sat there and waited for her response. "You owe me a thousand bucks."

"What?"

"That's what they'd bill you at the hospital. And probably more."

"I'm not giving you any money," she spat at him.

"Relax, this was a freebie. That's why I operated on you here. A few precautions and you should be fine. I saved your life. I'll just take a thank you."

"I'm not thanking for anything, you asshole, I didn't ASK you to save my life. I wanted to die! That is probably why I took a shard of glass and slit my wrists open in the tub!"

"So?" She looked at him confused.

"So? - Well…Who gave you the right to save me?"

"Hippocrates and his silly oath." She had no answer. "You did a good job." She was even more puzzled. "The cuts. They were so precise. This wasn't the work of an amateur. You knew the proper way to do this is vertically. You bleed out faster. Luckily, the cuts were small."

"And?"

"When you cut horizontally you can cut the tendons, lose finger movement. You made the cuts vertically, not because you wanted to bleed out fast, but because you couldn't handle losing your gift, not even for a second."

"And how is that important? Wouldn't you rather know why I tried to kill myself?"

"No, I know that already and besides, it's uninteresting to me."

"Oh… Then it's my turn to ask – Why did you save me?"

"I told you, I'm a doctor, that's what I do."

"That's a lie. Why would you possibly take the time to sew me up, to spend the night next to my bed checking up on me, risking murdering me, instead of just letting me die, or calling an ambulance?" House was silent. He didn't really know the answer to it himself. He definitely didn't want to discuss it.

"I knew you had no insurance, since you came to me for drugs and I knew you'd never be able to pay the bill, judging by your state."

"How did my financial worries pertain to you? How could they matter to you?"

"Would you just stop asking questions and rest?" He raised his voice.

"I want to know the truth."

"You're going to sleep."

"No, I'm not." House nodded and held in his hand an empty injection. She didn't notice at all that he had injected her with sedatives in her IV. She stopped protesting, however annoyed as a person can be, throwing a hateful look at him. She lied down and surrendered to sleep quite quickly.

She woke up again in the evening. The room was dark and she seemed to be alone. She still had the IV in her arm and a banana bag hanging above her. The silence was horrific. Deafening. She looked around and finally appreciated the graveness of her situation. She tried to kill herself. And she failed. Now she is alone again, she has no real job and she's without money. The trauma was getting the best of her. Tears started rolling down her face and soon she started sobbing loudly and she cried and cried for a few minutes. The door of the bathroom clicked and out came House and proclaimed: "Oh, don't cry, I was only taking a dump."

"Fuck you, FUCK you…" She said calmly.

"Calm down."

"A person thinks that they can finally wind down and then there's you. Excuse me, but I'm having a crisis over here."

"I can sedate you again."

"No. I want you to go."

"If I leave…"

"…I'm gonna try again. Blah blah blaah. The fact is, I might not try now, tomorrow or the next day or the next week or month…But it is going to happen eventually. Know that." Her eyes were still tearing up.

"…I was about to say that I couldn't leave because I wouldn't be able to monitor your condition. I don't give a shit whether you kill yourself in a month or two. What I do care about is that you don't die, as a direct result of my actions. After that, you do what you want…"

"Wow, you're an asshole."

"People have told me so." He sat down on the floor facing her only at a right angle. They sat in silence.

"By the way, you were wrong about the drugs," she mentioned after some time.

"That's just your drug denial speaking." He took out a bottle of his precious drugs from his pants pocket. He popped one pill and hanged his head back in enjoyment. She laughed.

"Right, cause you're an addict, everyone's an addict. That is a lame assumption and you must know that…"

"Drugs, alcohol...what does it matter, everything can be a drug. What is your explanation then?" She hesitated a bit but then started speaking in a very low and soft voice.

"When I was finishing grammar school, I had no idea what to do except speak a different language and the only thing you can really do with it is to teach it."

"Oh, crap, it comes with a story…"¨

"Yeah, it does! Now, you want to know the truth or not?" She had him on that. He shut up.

"So, I decided to study to become a teacher. Even though it was disgusting to me. Having to inflict the same rules and regulations on children that bothered me so much growing up. Having to become the authority, having all the responsibility for the actions of children while they are in school and having responsibility for their thoughts and further development." It started to interest him. "But my whole life I asked myself one question: What can a teacher do to make me learn? I realized that I want to be different. I want to help children overcome their fears, the same fears and doubts I have. I began to see reason in my work. It gave my life meaning." This time he understood. The only meaning he saw was in his work, too. While he was trying to save their lives, she was trying to save their souls. "I was happy at that school. Maybe too happy. There was this boy…"

"I should've known."

"It's a cliché to say it, but he was…mature for his age…" He smirked. "He was so smart. He'd read books, that I had difficulty with for enjoyment. But he was mostly quiet. Except, when someone said anything stupid. Then, he'd always be ready with a witty remark to smite them with. Sort of…like you. It was funny…" She smiled into the darkness. "He was almost eighteen. I never…"

"You never fucked him? Poor guy…"

"He kissed me. That was it. We started writing messages on his tests. Then, we started to text."

"Lovee stuff, huh? He wanted to shag you, so he invented this scam…"

"It wasn't like that. We were both looking for understanding and we found it in each other…One day he stayed later in class and kissed me. But some insipid little creature came in and blabbed it everywhere. They only fired me. And I can't see him ever again. His parent demanded a restraining order, saying I was 'a bad influence that led him down a wrong path'…Now every time I apply for a job, I can't put my only job for reference, or I tell them and they check up on me. They act like they understand. Like they get my view of the situation…But they don't. And they definitely don't want me to work with their children. If it got out, the parents would arrange a public stoning."

"That sucks. For you. We don't really need to talk anymore."

"And what else do you suppose we do? You can't even turn on the lights. Could you at least pass me my cigarettes?" He looked at her and hesitated a bit but threw her the purse. She took out the pack, put a cig in her mouth and lit it. She inhaled the smoke and exhaled with deep relaxation. "I know it's a carcinogenic smoke filled with tar and various other chemicals that kill me each drag but… it's so damn delicious…" She let out a soft moan. She reached for the ashtray lying next to her bed, put it on her lap and closed her eyes. "Why do you do this shit anyways? Why don't you get a normal practice?"

"Because I lost my license."

"And why did you lose it?"

"I went to prison."

"What did you go to prison for?"

"Because I... I parked my car in my ex's driveway…" She looked confused. "And by driveway I mean dining room." He confessed.

"Shit, that's hardcore…" She laughed at him. "So why didn't you get it renewed afterwards?"

"I did."

"Then, why don't you have it now?" She was very impatient with him but enjoyed interrogating him.

"It's a long story."

"And I have nothing but time, thanks to you. So?"

"I lost my damn license because I'm officially dead. I had to be, because of my friend."

"What?"

"I fucked up. I violated my parole and I was supposed to go to prison for 5 months. 5 months that my cancer-riddled friend didn't have."

"I never thought types like you had friends." He just kept quiet and didn't answer. She was bored and kept on asking questions.

"So why did your gf do to you? Cheated on you?"

"I was just venting."

"But why?"

"Why do you care why?"

"Isn't it important? The reasons, the motivation, the things that make the world move? Why should be your motivation insignificant? Or better, how is it not interesting at least?"

"We danced around each other for years, then we decided to take it to the next level, she promised a lot of shit she couldn't keep and then she dumped me. I was angry with her, because she shouldn't have promised, or I shouldn't have promised, or we should've both kept our promises… it doesn't matter. It ended just the way other relationships end."

"What did she promise?"

There was a long pause. "That she would love me the way I am."

"That's never true. That's why compromise exists."

"I know. I just believed that…maybe once it would…I know I screwed up too. That's why she left me." She didn't answer anything, just took a drag from her cigarette and stared forward. When she finished it minutes later, she got up to take a leak. House naturally contradicted her.

"If you think that you're going in that bathroom alone, then you're stupid." He got up while she watched him while being creeped out. "Don't worry, I don't get my kicks out of that."

"Well, if you want to watch me piss that's your call…" And she got up, grabbed her bag and sat on the throne while he was watching her. When was washing her hands she looked down upon her bandaged wounds and froze up. That feeling… The water, the blood, the sorrow. She watched the water run and stared at it. She felt her hand tear up the bandage on the other. He noticed it and grabbed her hand and pulled her away, turning her to face him. "Stop it!" He yelled in her face. She seemed out of her head. She didn't realize what she was doing. His voice brought Joe to reality and she started sobbing again. House didn't know what to do, when they were so close. He pressed her to his chest and attempted being supportive. It was an awkward hug of two complete strangers, put together by coincidence. She didn't really refuse the hug. But the she didn't receive it either. She just accepted the reality of being held by someone. She stopped sobbing.

They became awfully quiet after that. He rebandaged her wrist. She asked him if he could sedate her for the night, because she won't fall asleep and he obliged. He waited for her to be sleeping before he went downstairs for some food and entertainment for himself.


	6. Don't let go

"Rise and shine." House said as he stuck a bowl of warm cornflakes on a tray before her. She sat up and looked at him irritated. "That's as far as my cooking skill will go today."

"It's fine. It's my favorite food anyway." After a pause, she said a quiet "Thank you."

"I think you should move around a little bit. You have the right color."

"Okay."

"I took the banana bag. You have to eat now."

"I know." She ate the whole bowl in a few grand gulps and put the tray aside. She got up and he watched her make every move. He was rejecting the idea that he was attracted to her. But being a doctor, he couldn't help but be obsessed with bodies. With hers in particular at the moment. It didn't have to be her. It could be any other beautiful woman and he'd still be enjoying the sight of her pale skin. The touch of her hand. The sweet smell of her hair and the perfectly constructed lines of her face. The color of her eyes as she looked up at him. He remembered.

"By the way," she said as she was putting on her pants, "you dressed me."

"Yes and I saw everything. I also had to give you a sponge bath and dry you off with a towel because you literally bathed in blood. I didn't do any funny stuff with you."

"And how can I believe that?"

"I like women conscious, so they can scream how awesome I am."

"I figured." She laughed a little. "Are you going to leave now?" She was a little scared. She would be alone again.

"I want you to come downstairs."

"Why?"

"Because I can watch you better there… And there's TV."

"I…"

"I'm not discussing it. You're coming." He looked into her eyes as he was in close proximity to her. She looked up into his. She was a bit scared. Or not. She didn't understand her feeling at the moment. She just knew her chest was shivering, her hands were sweating and her mind was still unclear as to what she feels towards this man. He saved her life. He helped her to avoid a huge bill from the hospital. He looked after her for three days. She should trust him for that. On the other hand, his motivation is unknown. Who knows what he can do to her. _What if he enjoys tormenting people? What if he never lets me leave?_

She entered his apartment and looked around curiously when she closed the door behind her. It was dark, gloomy and a little dirty. The piano was in a brilliant state, majestically appearing in the corner. She noticed it immediately.

"I see you play the piano…and guitar…Are you any good?"¨

"I am the alfa and omega of good, if you haven't noticed. Do you play?"

"I always wanted to learn the piano. But I was so stubborn and couldn't go through with it. I kept lashing out at the keys. I was angry at them… I love the sound of it, though."

"What do you listen to the most?"

"Chopin, Debussy, Satie and the classics…" House thought for a second and sat at the piano. After some time, a luscious noise started to come out of the instrument and it was so delicate and pleasing. Every key created a new dimension. Each sound made her sway gently from side to side. It was one of her favorite pieces from Satie, Gymnopedie n.1. It was simple, easy, and yet it had such a body of sound, such a rich voice and emotion. She started to dance to it slightly, closed her eyes and smiled widely. It was the most pleasurable experience of the last week. Before she had no interest in hearing it again. Now was the time to hear it. After finishing one, he played another and another. She kept swaying in a haze. It was like a stroke over her hair. Like a caress on her skin. House didn't watch her being busy with the keys. He could see her softened face and her light smile full of gentle ecstasy and he continued. It was like a dance between the two of them, slow and delicate… When he couldn't remember the notes anymore he stopped. He noticed she was tearing up again. But it was a tear of joy.

"Thank you…"

"For what?"

"That you shared this moment with me. I could've just gone to my cell and play it into my earphones. This way it had more meaning." He nodded. "You really do justice to Satie."

"Thanks…it's not that hard…"

"And yet I never got around to learn. I kept putting it off. Doesn't matter anymore." She turned to leave. She felt she had nothing to do there.

"Don't go…" He said with a slightly raised voice. She stopped for a second. "I'll teach you," he panicked. It was the last way he knew how to keep her there.

"I can't pay you."

"I know."

"I might be good for nothing."

"Doesn't matter. You can still try. You can use my piano to practice anytime you want." She didn't understand why he would want to do this for her. Why did he do so much for her already? _What is he trying to make up for?_ She thought there is no harm in trying. She can put her suicidal thoughts aside for a few days, to see if she can still make it.

"Okay," she said quietly.

From then on, they were practicing every day together. And she wasn't half bad. A fast learner. After a month, she tried to actually play, instead of training her fingers. Her scars were healed nicely. She learned a couple of short songs and life was beginning to feel good again. The whole time, as he persuaded her, she stayed in his apartment. She didn't protest much anyway. She slept on the couch and didn't mind it. They never discussed their relationship. They were just roommates, apparently. She even decorated his living room with her sketches. He was on some of them. One was where he was thinking, his look distant, his brow crinkled and focused. It was made while he was reading, while he barely noticed her drawing him. Another one when he was playing the piano for her. She listened and sketched. He had such a smile on his face, she never seen before. It was warm and absorbed. She understood that.

"There was supposed to be a G there," he mentioned while she played a simpler tune.

"I know."

"Try again." The keys are far away from each other.

"I can't do it. It's too far from my hands."

"Just practice," he said. She stopped playing.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm cleaning out the closet."

"Why?"

"Why do you keep asking why? I'm just making some room for your things, I keep tripping over them here."

"I knew it," she stood up and uttered.

"Then, why didn't you do it yourself?" He looked at her confused.

"I knew, that you would keep me here and wouldn't let me leave."

"I you wanna leave, that's fine,"

"Why are you installing me here permanently?"

"Because you are here, all the time!"

"You didn't say you minded."

"I don't care."

"You protect me for days. You keep checking on me at night. Yeah, I've noticed. You let me stay here and use your things, you teach me to play and you say you don't care?" He didn't answer and left everything the way it was. He just went to the bedroom and slammed the door. She wanted to leave but couldn't. The feeling of being close to someone was too strong now. Leave it and she will die. She lied on the couch and thought about what he said. But sleep was too far away from her mind so she got up again after midnight. She went straight to his room. She opened the door, came in and stood watching him there for a while. He was sleeping soundly. She was rejecting him the whole time. He was very clear about his feeling too. Is it just her imagination? Is their connection real? And is it safe? She went and did the only thing she knew how to show him her appreciation. She sat on the bed and carefully crawled under the covers.

"If you're looking for House, he's currently out of town, can I take a message?" House said half asleep. She laughed at her pointless attempt, lied down and faced him. "What are you doing here?"

"The couch was getting boring."

"Are you sure you wanna risk your innocence in here with me?"

"Can't be all bad, can it?" They smiled at each other. "I needed to see you. To ask you why, once again." House sighed and sat up on the bed, putting his feet on the floor and turning away from her. "Why did you save me that night?"

"We've been over this."

"And yet I never got a straight answer from you."

"I didn't want your death to be my fault," he said truthfully.

"And why did you take me her? What's in it for you?"

"I watch you in the shower."

"No, you don't."

"Then what do you want to hear?"

"I just want to know if you feel sorry for me, or if you care!" She sat up and crawled to sit beside him. "Alright, you want to hear it first? Meeting you, you bastard who saved my wretched life when I didn't want it, was the best thing that ever happened to me." She laid a hand on his cheek and watched him. His face intently followed each word she uttered of the last sentence. He was completely caught off guard. "Now tell me, why did you save me?" He was hesitant for a while.

"Because…" he started. "Because I felt that if I can save you, you can save me."

She looked into his eyes and smiled. She put her other hand on his neck and kissed him gently on the cheek. He took her onto his lap and run his fingers through her hair and he caressed her for some time, her neck, her chest, her back. She leaned in and held him tightly. She put all her energy in that hug, all her gratitude and love. They both did. Holding each other was what they needed more than anything. More than sex. More than passion. They needed to be open and their heart naked in front of each other. They needed the attention of the other, to understand and see themselves. This way, they felt they both existed.


End file.
